


To Be Held

by lipsstainedbloodred



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsstainedbloodred/pseuds/lipsstainedbloodred
Summary: “Angel,” Crowley tries again.Aziraphale’s head snaps to the side, pinning him in place with a stare. Aziraphale looks all the world like he’s never seen him before, and lightning arcs across his eyes again, his face impassive as stone.“Come back to bed angel,” Crowley says, and offers a slender hand up in supplication, “come back to me.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 246
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	To Be Held

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Good Omens Holiday Swap Fic for eliza--thornberry on tumblr. I tried to go with South Downs Cottage as a theme while thinking about the winter and this kind of spilled out. Happy Holidays I hope you enjoy it!

When winter comes, it does so slowly and with good warning. It gives ample time to ensure the sensitive plants are brought into the small glass shed Crowley generously calls a greenhouse, or into the cottage proper. Aziraphale tucks away the last of their picnic blankets for use in the spring and brings their lovely little wicker sitting bench into the protected walls of their solarium. They’ve learned in the last few years that even if the winter is predicted to be mild, it is best to be cautious. 

The first week of December is deceptively mild, enough so that Crowley puts off bringing their heavy down comforter out from the attic storage with complaints that he would get too hot at night if they brought it out too early. A few days later, when storm clouds roll in bringing with them freezing rain and high winds off the coast, he regrets ever making the complaint. 

Crowley wakes freezing, the kind of cold that creeps up your bones and holds tight. For a minute Crowley doesn’t understand why he’s awake. He reaches out for Aziraphale and his hand meets with an empty bed and cold sheets. Thunder rumbles outside, and Crowley feels the sound in his chest making its home there, a yawning chasm of despair. 

The clock on the wall reads 4:18AM. 

The floorboards creak underfoot as Crowley climbs out of bed. He grabs a blanket off the foot of the bed, a patchwork quilt Bicycle Girl- _ Anathema _ , Aziraphale’s voice in the back of his head corrects crossly,  _ lovely girl _ -had given them a couple years prior at Christmas, and wraps it around his shoulders. His hair is a mess, growing far too long lately, and he pushes it out of his face impatiently as he heads downstairs. 

Aziraphale isn’t hard to find. 

The library is beautiful, even in the dark. Floor to ceiling bookshelves all painted white to offset the dark floor and three massive windows that take up nearly a whole wall on their own. Aziraphale is in front of the middle one. His back is ramrod straight, hands clasped together behind himself, standing barefoot in his flannel pajama set and dressing robe. 

“Angel,” Crowley says quietly. 

He doesn’t need to be quiet, it isn’t as if there’s anyone else in the cottage for him to wake up. But there is something about the night that makes one tread lighter, speak quieter, as though if you did not then something terrible might happen. There’s a heaviness to nighttime Crowley has never been able to shake. 

Lightning arcs across the sky as rain pounds against the glass in an immutable torrent. In the same instant lightning arcs itself across the stormy gray-blue of Aziraphale’s eyes. There’s a heavy ozone smell to the air that makes Crowley feel light headed. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, though he doesn’t step any closer, doesn’t dare reach a hand out to touch him, “come back to bed.”

It is so very cold in this room without the fireplace to keep them warm. Crowley likes to spend whole afternoons in front of it while it’s lit, lounging with his head in Aziraphale’s lap and listening to Aziraphale read aloud. Without the roaring fire and soft glow of lamplight everything seems cast into sharp monochrome shadows. 

Thunder hits like drum beats.

“Angel,” Crowley tries again.

Aziraphale’s head snaps to the side, pinning him in place with a stare. Aziraphale looks all the world like he’s never seen him before, and lightning arcs across his eyes again, his face impassive as stone.

“Come back to bed angel,” Crowley says, and offers a slender hand up in supplication, “come back to me.”

Recognition dawns across his face like a drop of water rippling across a well. Aziraphale shudders and says, “Crowley?” He sounds hoarse, like he’d been screaming for hours with no answer. 

“Yes love,” Crowley says and relief warms him down to his scale covered toes, “I’m right here.”

Aziraphale takes one step forward, then another, and then he buries himself into Crowley’s open arms. “I’m cold,” He says after a long silence. 

“Okay,” Crowley says and kisses his shoulder, “come on then.” He twines their hands together and leads them back to their bedroom. 

All the way, Aziraphale limps.

The next morning Crowley digs out the heavy goose down duvet from the storage trunk in the attic. He spends the next several hours sneezing and rubbing at his itchy eyes from the dust. It’s worth it though, because a deep chill settles over the house. 

Aziraphale moodily holds himself up in his study with the small space heater while Crowley chokes on dust and sets about trying to get the ancient radiator up and running. He finally gives up sometime in the afternoon, deciding the moderate warmth it puts out is the best he’s going to get and resolves to put on more layers. Aziraphale takes the news with a bit less grace than he normally would, sighing and looking put out about the whole ordeal. 

Crowley spends the rest of the day in his studio, arbitrarily shifting canvases from in progress easels to the closet to be painted over or discarded and then back again. He pauses over a seascape he’d been working on, the ocean in the throes of anger during a storm and bright light flashing across dead gray skies. His hand twitches and he tosses it into the closet with more vitriol than it really deserves. 

He drags himself up to bed a little after eleven, hair falling out of the haphazard bun he’d thrown it into just to get the curls out of his face. He’s unsurprised to find Aziraphale still hasn’t made his way upstairs as he readies himself for bed. 

He lifts the corner of the duvet and puts it down again, shifting from one foot to the other and glancing at the door. It isn’t the first time Crowley’s gone to bed alone, but he’s never liked it. 

He hears Aziraphale’s unsteady gait coming up the stairs just as he resolves himself to a sleepless night shifting restlessly under the covers. Crowley sighs when Aziraphale climbs under the covers next to him, the light from the hall pouring in where Aziraphale’s left the door half open. “All right?” Crowley asks, his eyes half lidded. 

“Mm,” Aziraphale non-answers, pulling through covers up to his chin. He looks exhausted. 

“Come here,” Crowley prompts, opening his arms up for Aziraphale to slide into. 

Aziraphale makes a noise, not unlike something put upon and disapproving, but moves closer anyway. Crowley takes that for the little invitation that it is and drapes himself on top of his angel, legs tossed carelessly together and pointed elbows digging into Aziraphale’s round sides. Aziraphale grunts but bears his weight, eyes drifting shut. Crowley hums against Aziraphale’s chest, nosing at the little buttons holding his satin sleeping shirt closed. His hand rubs absently at Aziraphale’s stomach, skimming up and down the swell of it. 

Eventually Aziraphale goes pliant underneath him, either placated or unwilling to put up a fight any longer. A strong hand curves over a too sharp jut of bone at his hip and Crowley presses an approving kiss just above the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt. Crowley’s hand drags down from a soft stomach to a tense leg, kneading and prodding at the soreness there. Aziraphale hisses and clenches his hand harder against Crowley’s hip in warning. 

“Let me,” Crowley breathes, nuzzling under Aziraphale’s chin, “please.”

Aziraphale lets out a tense breath and relaxes his hand. “Fine,” he says. It’s as much permission as he’s going to get. 

Crowley kisses a thank you into whatever skin he can reach at Aziraphale’s neck and tries to rub the ache out of Aziraphale’s leg. This corporation bears no scar, but Crowley can feel the ache where it pulses just below the flesh, a phantom, writhing heat from a sword too many years ago. 

Aziraphale’s breath catches on a particularly painful press of bony fingers against flesh and Crowley stops. “Okay?” He asks, hand sliding up over Aziraphale’s hip and stomach, dipping under his shirt to splay over soft skin. 

“Okay,” Aziraphale whispers. If he’s crying neither one of them mention it. 

Crowley rests his head against his angel’s chest, feeling the steady low thrum of his heart. He lets his thumb rub absent circles against Aziraphale’s stomach and hums something low and sweet, a melody he remembers from a time just before his century long sleep. When Aziraphale’s fingers card through his hair, distangling small knots with gentle ease, he lets his eyes fall shut. 

The morning greets them with a weak glow behind heavy drapes, struggling desperately to peak inside. Crowley only wakes when Aziraphale shifts underneath him, preparing to get out of bed. 

“Where’re you going?” Crowley mumbles. His mouth is dry and sticky. His hair is stuck to his cheek and opening his eyes is a chore. His back aches between his shoulder blades. “Comfy-“

Aziraphale’s lips find the top of his head. “Time for breakfast, my dear.”

“Mm,” Crowley protests, “‘s cold.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agrees, voice deceptively soft, “I can draw you a bath if you’d like.”

Crowley clicks his tongue. “No,” He says, “no it’s fine.” He slides off of Aziraphale with a groan, his back seizing, shoving his hair out of his face and looking up with sleepy eyes. 

Aziraphale presses a kiss to his forehead before climbing out of bed. The couple steps he takes away from the bed are stumbling, his leg locking up on him a little. He grunts and rubs at it. 

“D’you want me to run  _ you  _ a bath?” Crowley asks, furrowing his eyebrows together. 

“No,” Aziraphale says, shaking it out, “It’s fine.” He bites off the end of the word a little sharper than he usually would, the line of his jaw locked tight. 

The space between them suddenly feels like it spans miles. The little warmth that had gathered between them over the night seems frozen over. Crowley digs his fingers into the heavy down of the comforter. Silence hangs heavy and pregnant in the air like swollen dark storm clouds. 

Aziraphale clears his throat.

“Any-“ Aziraphale stops, worrying at his lower lip, “any requests dear?”

“Omelets?”

“Of course, of course.” Aziraphale murmurs. “Do join me soon, won’t you?”

“‘Course I will angel.” Crowley replies, voice just as soft. 

Aziraphale nods stiffly and leaves the room.

Crowley sinks into the bed, cold despite the layers covering him. 

It’s the music, several long minutes later, that pulls him out of bed. Something cello heavy and familiar drifts up the stairs. The first record Aziraphale had played when they first moved into the cottage, something slow enough to learn to dance to. Crowley feels tears prickle at the edge of his eyes that he blinks away. He steals a jumper from Aziraphale’s vanity chair and pulls a pair of heavy woolen socks over his feet before padding downstairs to investigate. 

Crowley loves their kitchen. It’s a bit small for a cottage this size, but it’s never felt cramped. He remembers nights staying up late going over wood samples and fabric swatches, Aziraphale absently braiding bits of his hair while he compared two similar swatches over and over. The large window over the sink overlooks the sea and lighthouse in the distance, sheer white curtains tied back with black ribbon. In the spring Crowley likes to keep the window open while he cooks, but for now it is shut tight to keep out the creeping chill of frost. 

The sun bursts through sheets of gray clouds in spots as a promise to the rainy haze ending soon. The music is louder inside the kitchen, Aziraphale’s record player in the sitting room next door, filling the still air. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s bare toes curl against the hardwood floor, his fingers drumming against the counter in time to the music. He’s humming a little, his mouth turned up in the corner in a fragile breath of a smile. 

Crowley presses himself against Aziraphale’s back and wraps his arms around his middle, hooking a sharp chin over a soft shoulder. Aziraphale rests a hand over his for a moment, squeezing briefly. Crowley presses a fleeting kiss to the back of his neck and steps back. Aziraphale shifts his weight, leaning further onto his good leg. 

“How long are you going to pretend it’s not bothering you?” Crowley asks, his chest an aching, open chasm. 

Aziraphale takes a sharp breath. “It’s-” He shifts his weight back again, “It’s fine, dear, just a little twinge you know.”

“I know,” Crowley echoes. There’s anger there- beneath the empty nothingness he hasn’t been able to banish since finding Aziraphale staring out at that awful storm- a fire burning too bright and hot. “I know what it’s like to  _ hurt _ ,” He hisses, “and to pretend that it doesn’t.”

Aziraphale turns off the burner, setting his spatula down. He turns around to face Crowley, face a mask of neutrality. “Are we going to fight about this?”

“I don’t know,  _ are  _ we?” Crowley asks, spreading his arms wide, “Or are you going to just admit to me that you’re in  _ pain  _ so I can stop hurting for you.” 

Aziraphale’s face drops. “I’m not- I didn’t,” He huffs, “I didn’t ask you to hurt for me. I didn’t ask you to pick up that burden.”

“You didn’t have to,” Crowley says, “I just do.” He reaches out and catches Aziraphale’s ever twisting, wringing hands. He brings them up to kiss the knuckles. The anger in his chest fizzles out to a bare spark by the affection and love that floods him instead. “It hurts me that you would deny yourself comfort, and it hurts that in doing so you push me away.” Aziraphale’s fingers twitch in his grip, holding him back. 

“ _ Crowley- _ ” Aziraphale says. 

“Let me take care of you, Aziraphale. Let me love you.” 

Aziraphale makes a sound. A ragged, shuddering gasp of a sob that he tries to quiet by pulling Crowley into him and pressing his face into Crowley’s neck. Crowley places a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck and holds him there, wrapping his other arm snugly around his waist. 

“I’ve got you,” Crowley says into down soft hair, “I’ve got you.”

They stay wrapped together like that for a long time. The attempt at breakfast vanishes with barely a thought, but the music plays on much longer than the record should allow. 

“It does hurt,” Aziraphale says. His voice chewed up and rough, eyes swollen and red. Crowley rubs his thumb gently over the back of his neck. “And when it does I...Crowley it’s like I’m back  _ there  _ again and I don’t- I don’t ever want to have to be that again.”

“I know,” Again that gentle sweep of thumb against fragile skin and bone, “I know.”

“Crowley I am so scared that someday I’m going to hurt you because of it,” Aziraphale whispers, a little frantic, “That someday I’m not going to wake up in time.”

“You won’t.” Crowley assures, “Angel, I  _ know  _ that you won’t.”

Aziraphale kisses him desperately, hands clutching at Crowley’s ribcage and trying to pull him even closer. They can’t get close enough. Too much clothing and skin and bone in the way. There is a desperate need to hold and be held inside the very essence of one another. 

Crowley pulls back to pepper kisses over Aziraphale’s eyelids and cheek. “Come on,” He says, “I’ll light a fire in the library and we can try and get warm together.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley links their fingers together carefully, preciously, and leads the way.


End file.
